


Advent drabbles

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Christmas, Drabble Collection, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles written for advent. The prompts are taken from the Oxford English Dictionary's word of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt: December

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/3470218.html>

John comes home from work to find Sherlock curled up in an armchair, staring at his pyjama-clad knees. When John says hello, Sherlock just grunts.  
  
Right, then. The forecast for John getting a decent conversation this evening looks bleak.  
  
He ignores the fug of Sherlock's mood for the moment and turns to the mantelpiece to check the post. It's then that he notices the new addition to the room.  
  
There, sitting quite happily on the mantelpiece in front of him, is an advent calendar.  
  
It's a chocolate one. There's a cheery picture of a Christmas tree on the front, with the name 'Cadbury' emblazoned at the top. From the looks of it, it's not been opened.  
  
John's not quite sure what to make of that. He's never envisioned Sherlock as an advent calendar type of person. But, well, the man does have some soft spots; maybe this is one of them.  
  
"This your advent calendar?" asks John, turning to Sherlock.  
  
"Mm?" says Sherlock, in the general direction of the carpet.  
  
"The advent calendar." John picks it up for good measure, the chocolates rattling inside. "I didn't think you'd like this sort of stuff."  
  
Sherlock frowns, then looks up, apparently taking in John's presence for the first time. "What? Advent calendar?" He looks the advent calendar in John's hand and sighs. "John, I don't mind if you want to buy an advent calendar, but you don't have to trumpet it everywhere."  
  
"What?" John looks to the advent calendar. "No. No, I didn't buy it." He sets it back down on the mantelpiece with a frown. "It was right here. I thought it was yours."  
  
Sherlock scoffs and turns back to his knees.  
  
John peers at it. "Whose is it then?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs. "I hardly care, John."  
  
"But someone must have put it there," says John. "Surely you would have noticed who brought it?"  
  
Sherlock waves a hand. "Don't know. Busy. Not important."  
  
"Must have been Mrs Hudson," says John, mostly to himself. He folds his arms and looks at it. "Do you want to open it then?" he asks Sherlock over his shoulder. "It is the 1st today."  
  
From the armchair, Sherlock lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.  
  
"Fine then," says John. "More chocolate for me." He leans in, finds the door numbered 1 and opens it. But instead of the usual Christmassy picture with a piece of chocolate nestled behind shiny foil, what John finds is a scrawled set of co-ordinates and what, very worryingly, looks like the tip of someone's finger.  
  
"Sherlock," says John, not letting the gruesome spectacle out of his sight. "Sherlock, I think you want to have a look at this."  
  
"John, I am busy," huffs Sherlock, then stops when John thrusts the advent calendar under his nose. He takes one look at the fingertip and lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.  
  
"A puzzle!" he cries, snatching the calendar from John's hands and leaping to his feet. "Oh, this is perfect!"  
  
John goes to say that most people would find this sort of thing a little threatening, but Sherlock's already dashed off to his bedroom to go get changed.


	2. Prompt: Umami

It's around about half past six in the evening when John hears Sherlock call up the stairs, "Dinner's ready, John!"  
  
It takes John a moment to put the sentence in context. Sherlock providing dinner is a rare thing indeed. After all, he hardly acts as if he needs food most of the time. John presumes he must have gone out and purloined a free take-away from somewhere or other.  
  
What John doesn't expect is to come downstairs to find two bowls of steaming, home-made spaghetti bolognese sitting on the table with Sherlock standing proudly beside it.  
  
"You..." John is momentarily lost for words. "You cooked."  
  
"Yes," says Sherlock as if he's addressing an idiot. He sits down at the table and gestures at the other chair. "I was hungry."  
  
"You cook," says John. "You can cook." He pulls out the chair and sits down in a bit of a daze.  
  
"Of course I can cook." Sherlock looks mildly affronted. "It's not that different to chemistry, you know."  
  
John pauses, his hand halfway to picking up his fork, suddenly suspicious. He looks at Sherlock. "There's nothing strange in this, is there? Eyeballs, body parts, that sort of thing?"  
  
"John," says Sherlock with reproach, "I would hardly waste good body parts by letting you eat them." He twirls up a forkful of pasta and puts it in his mouth.  
  
"Of course not," mutters John. He stares at the dish in front of him, then tentatively picks up his fork and takes a bite.  
  
He's greeted by something that tastes very much like spaghetti bolognese. In fact, more than that, it's a very good spaghetti bolognese.  
  
"This is good," says John, chewing. He takes another bite. "Very good." He looks up at Sherlock. "I take it back. You're a good cook. This is delicious."  
  
Sherlock looks insanely proud of himself. "That'll be the monosodium glutamate," he says.  
  
John swallows. "What?"  
  
"It's the byproduct of an experiment I'm working on," says Sherlock dismissively. "I thought it would be a shame for it to go to waste."  
  
"Right," says John, putting down his fork. "What experiment, exactly?"  
  
Sherlock beams.


	3. Prompt: Skeezy

Halfway through the day, John had received a text from Sherlock requesting that they meet at a certain pub near Aldgate after John finishes work. Sherlock didn't add any information as to why, but John dutifully heads over there when his shift is up.  
  
The pub is a medium-sized one with a dark interior and high ceilings; normal London pub fare for the most part. When John gets there, it seems as if Sherlock's not arrived yet, so John buys himself a pint, heads over to a sofa in the corner, and sits down to wait.  
  
After a couple of minutes, a man who was sitting at the bar stands up and walks over. He's wearing a beer-stained t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The greying hair on his head is greasy and lank. In his hand, there's a Tesco carrier bag that looks like it's seen better days.  
  
"Excuse me, mate," he says, in a thick cockney accent, "do you have a light?"  
  
"Er, no," says John. Much to his chagrin, that doesn't make the man go away.  
  
"Shame," he says, sitting down opposite John, "hardly no-one does these days." He sniffs.  
  
John smiles half-heartedly. Normally, John prides himself about not judging people by their appearances, but there's something about this man that sets John on edge regardless. Maybe it's the week-old stubble, or the grimy, black fingernails, or the sorry-looking, unlit roll-up hanging out of his mouth.  
  
"You been here before?" asks the man.  
  
"Not to this pub, no," says John, not sure how much information he wants to give away. The man has identity-theft, or, at least, some sort of theft, written all over him. Surreptitiously, John feels to check that his wallet is still in his pocket.  
  
"I only work round the corner," says the man, before stopping to cough thickly. "Got a market stall."  
  
"Right," says John. Hopefully Sherlock will arrive soon and they can leave. John considers sending Sherlock a text and telling him to hurry up, but he's wary of getting his phone out; chances are, it'll end up on that market stall before long.  
  
"I didn't used to though," says the man. "Used to be a journalist, writing for the local paper." He grins proudly.  
  
"Oh, really," says John, losing interest half-way through as he notices Sherlock enter through the front door. Thank God.  
  
John stands. "My friend is here so I should probably g..."  
  
"Ah, John." Sherlock strides over, unwinding his scarf. "I see you've already met Stanley."  
  
"What..." starts John, watching, rather confused, as Stanley stands up and Sherlock embraces him happily.  
  
"Stanley and I go back a long way," says Sherlock. "It's been, what, ten years now?"  
  
"Something like that." Stanley grins.  
  
"Stanley's one of the most trustworthy people you'll meet," says Sherlock, patting him on the shoulder. "Never goes back on his word." Glancing at the table, Sherlock frowns. "John, didn't you get Stanley a drink?"  
  
"I..." John goes to explain himself, but Sherlock's already taken Stanley over to the bar.  
  
Shaking his head, John supposes that he shouldn't judge people by their appearances after all. Then he checks that his phone and his wallet are where they should be, just in case.


	4. Prompt: Rollover

The scene is a gruesome one. The bodies have been removed from the car, but the amount of blood left there is quite horrifying.  
  
Sherlock sniffs the air and looks around as he pulls out a pair of gloves from the box Lestrade offers him.  
  
"We don't know what caused the crash," says Lestrade. "It's not normally a job for us, but we've been following the driver for months. Lives in Vauxhall normally. We think this crash might be drug-related."  
  
Sherlock slides down the bank into the ditch where the car lies, battered, on its back. "All dead?" he asks.  
  
Lestrade grimaces. "Afraid so."  
  
Sherlock pulls open the door to the driver's side and sticks his head inside. He inspects the ceiling, the steering wheel, the seat and the floor above him. "No," he mutters. "No. No." Retracting his head, he looks up at Lestrade. "What injuries did they receive?"  
  
Lestrade rifles in the file he's carrying. "We've got the autopsy photos here," he says.  
  
"Good." Sherlock holds out his hand. When Lestrade does nothing, Sherlock huffs and clicks his fingers.  
  
With a sigh, Lestrade scrambles down the bank and hands the file to Sherlock.  
  
Taking it, Sherlock flicks through the pages. "No. No. No," he says. Sherlock sticks his head back inside the car, looking up at the floor. "This isn't right."  
  
"What?" asks Lestrade.  
  
"The bloodstains," says Sherlock, gesturing. "They're all wrong. Those sorts of injuries shouldn't leave these sorts of stains. Not if the car landed this way up."  
  
"What do you mean?" asks Lestrade.  
  
"I mean," says Sherlock, pulling off his gloves and tossing them aside, "that these people were dead before the car crashed. Including the person you found in the driver's seat."  
  
Lestrade frowns. "But how can..."  
  
"Check the boot," says Sherlock, climbing back up to the road. "He was probably stored in there and moved after the crash. Find the person who actually drove the car and you'll find who murdered these people." Sherlock casts his gaze out along the road. "He can't have left that car without some sort of bruising, so I'm sure it won't be too hard." And looking down at Lestrade, he smiles.


	5. Prompt: Z-list

"So," says their guest, making himself comfortable in an armchair. "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you why I can't go to the police with this."  
  
"Of course not." Sherlock steeples his fingers. "Three arrests for violent conduct are enough to make anyone wary."  
  
"No." Their guest flushes bright red and adjusts his glasses. "No. That's... How did you even...?" He coughs. "That's not the reason."  
  
"Oh," says Sherlock brightly. "My apologies. Is there some other reason that you can't go to the police then?"  
  
"Of course!" replies their guest, almost rising out of his chair. "Isn't it obvious? I can't let this get out or it'll be the death of my career." He gives Sherlock a beseeching look. "I've heard you're very discreet."  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then frowns. Silence looms like a bad smell. Eventually, Sherlock turns to John and beckons him closer with a wave of his hand.  
  
When John leans over, Sherlock whispers. "Am I supposed to know who this is?"  
  
John looks at their guest and shrugs. "I don't think so," he whispers back.  
  
"He's not some kind of celebrity, is he?" asks Sherlock. "You know I'm not good with those."  
  
"No." John shakes his head. "Not as far as I know."  
  
"Right." Sherlock turns back to their guest and fixes him with a sharp glare. "Who are you?"  
  
Their guest looks taken aback. "You mean, you don't know?" he asks.  
  
"Haven't the faintest." Sherlock smiles. "If it's going to be important, you should probably tell us."  
  
Their guest sputters. "I'm Johnny H," he says indignantly.  
  
Sherlock looks blank.  
  
"You know," says Johnny H, confidence wavering, "from the Saturday morning fun gang."  
  
Sherlock gives John a confused look.  
  
"Er, I think it's a kids' show," explains John.  
  
"Oh, right," says Sherlock. He turns back to Johnny H. "I thought you said it was important?"


	6. Prompt: Mawashi

John and Sherlock follow the team captain into the changing room. It's small, with peeling paint, and an overwhelming smell of feet and mildew in the air.  
  
"That's his one, there," says the team captain, pointing out the locker belonging to their missing man and handing Sherlock the key.  
  
Sherlock inspects the area around the lock carefully, then checks the hinges. Finally, he opens the locker and looks inside.  
  
"Our lockers aren't very big," says the team captain. "Hard to get the grant funding for larger ones."  
  
Sherlock ignores him and pulls out a half-open sports bag.  
  
"Problem is," says the team captain, turning to John when Sherlock doesn't give him any response, "no-one really cares about sumo wrestling in this country."  
  
"Right," says John, more interested in the items Sherlock's pulling out of the bag than the conversation. Hopefully there'll be something in there that can tell them where this man's gone.  
  
"I mean," the team captain sniffs, "most people think it's just fat men hugging each other in nappies."  
  
John nods, not really listening. Sherlock's busy removing one of those nappies from the bag right now. He turns it over in his hands, then tosses it aside.  
  
"When did you last see him?" asks Sherlock.  
  
"Wednesday," replies the team captain. He folds his arms. "Can't get the kids interested; that's the problem," he says to John. "You wouldn't believe how many people think we just sell those stupid inflatable suits."  
  
"Oh," says John, watching as Sherlock empties the bag and peers into the back of the locker, "you sell those suits then, do you?"  
  
"No," says the team captain. "That's what I'm saying. People don't think it's a real sport."  
  
"I think we're quite done here." Sherlock bangs the locker door shut and turns to go. "Come on, John."  
  
"I'm telling you, you wouldn't get this problem in Japan," is the last thing they hear as they head out the door.


	7. Prompt: World's end

John hadn't realised that anywhere in the UK could feel as remote as this. They hardly left the town more than half an hour ago, yet it feels as if civilization is only a distant memory.  
  
He runs as fast as he can, thighs aching, ankles twisted and sore.  
  
Rocks litter what path there is, dank and slippery with trails of water rushing downwards. On John's right is a humped mass of earth, lank vegetation catching at his elbows; on the left, the path tumbles away steeply, only a white noise of water rushing over stony shale to suggest what lies below.  
  
Wind whips round John's ears.  
  
Sherlock is up ahead somewhere, but John doesn't know where. The man they were trailing through the town centre had suddenly turned and dashed up a side street. Of course, they'd given chase. But this isn't London. The fells encroach on human habitation here, looming dark and dangerous in the sky. Before they knew it, the side street had turned into a dirt track and then that had shrunk to a stone path, climbing up up up, always up, the wind growing stronger as they gained height.  
  
Neither of them are dressed for this sort of terrain, but Sherlock has the advantage of longer legs. Keeping their man in sight, he'd slipped and skidded and scrambled after him, stones crunching beneath his shoes. And no matter how hard John had tried to keep up, he'd gradually fallen behind.  
  
For a while, John could see where Sherlock was going; the heel of a shoe, the tail of a coat, teasing the limits of his vision. But then the clouds had descended upon them with a frightening speed and suddenly everything was lost.  
  
The thickening air is heavy and moist and cold as John drags himself through it. Anything more than a few feet away fades to white. There's nothing but Sherlock's footprints to go by, the noise of waterfalls and winds and treacherous terrain all around.  
  
John keeps running though. Has to. They can't let this man go after all this time. Lives depend on it.  
  
The path inclines sharply. John's shoes slip on mossy stones and he throws himself forwards, scrambling up on all fours, lungs burning in the bitter air. He strains to see where he's going, raindrops swirling past his skin and dancing in his eyes. Rocks skitter under his feet, tumbling down and away.  
  
Suddenly, a gunshot up ahead echoes through the air with awful clarity.  
  
John's heart clenches, dread ringing in his ears.  
  
He runs like a man possessed.


	8. Prompt: Green weenie

John's pretty sure that someone out there has it in for him. Although, unlike most people, John doesn't have to blame malevolent spirits, or deities or 'the man'. No, John has a pretty good idea of who that 'someone' is.  
  
Life is a daily struggle. Today, there's an odd green liquid in the bathroom sink that smells of sulphur. With an annoyed huff, John washes his hands in the bath instead. Next he discovers that there are dangers inherent in leaving his slippers in the sitting room, especially if you dislike finding a dismembered foot in one of them. For all the world, John doesn't know if his flatmate does this sort of thing as a joke or if there's a reason in the madness, although, what that reason would be is anyone's guess. More confusing, truth be told, is the fact that John opens the cupboard in the kitchen to discover that someone's eaten all of his cereal. And the thought of Sherlock eating four consecutive bowls of branflakes is mildly terrifying to say the least.  
  
Worst of all, though - the absolute worst - is that John's only been home for fifteen minutes when his phone buzzes in his pocket.  
  
He picks it up to discover the following text:  
  
 _I need you to come to Highgate Cemetary. SH_  
  
Just as John's reading, the phone buzzes again.  
  
 _Urgently. SH_  
  
Given previous experience, there's an extremely high chance that Sherlock only wants John there to pass him a pen, or to tell him what time it is, or a myriad of other equally menial and infuriating tasks.  
  
John should probably ignore it.  
  
Then again, there's also a chance that this is important. Exciting. Life-threatening, even.  
  
John purses his lips.  
  
And, with a resigned sigh, he throws on his coat and heads out the door.  
  
Yes. There's someone out there who has it in for John, alright. And John's pretty sure that that 'someone' is himself.


	9. Prompt: Mouseburger

Molly is having the day from hell. First, her colleague calls in sick so she has to stay on for the night-shift, then her computer breaks down for two hours, and now she's just had one of the doctors ring down with an urgent query that's going to take loads of work and of course she's got to do it all on her bloody own.  
  
More than once Molly feels like she's running around like a headless chicken; and after all this, it's quite possible that she looks like one too.  
  
She sends off two emails and annoyingly receives three more. Then, she goes to print them and the paper gets stuck in the printer in what must be a very cruel joke on a very bad day.  
  
Sherlock walks in the door, just as she's having a minor tug-of-war with the jammed piece of paper.  
  
"I need the file for Laurence Carter," he says.  
  
Molly's skin prickles at the sound of his voice but she's determined to rise above it. Things are busy enough as they are without Sherlock's demands on top of everything else.  
  
"Now's not a good time, Sherlock," she says defiantly, not looking him in the eye. He's like Medusa; one look and she's done for.  
  
He sniffs, clearly not happy with that answer, but Molly's not looking, not looking, and she's not going to fall for it, whatever he does. Triumphantly, she succeeds in wrenching the offending piece of paper free of the printer, slams the cover shut and listens as the machine whirs back into life.  
  
"Molly," he begins.  
  
She looks up on instinct and, dammit, Sherlock's clearly been working hard upstairs because his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is dishevelled and he looks so rumpled that it's adorable. Molly despairs but is gratefully saved at the last moment by the sound of the phone ringing.  
  
Thanking her lucky stars, Molly sits down at her desk, grabs the receiver and turns her back to Sherlock as she takes the call. Hopefully, if she ignores him for long enough, he'll get bored and go away.  
  
Fifteen minutes and a rather complex conversation later and Molly's almost forgotten about Sherlock, so she's both elated and disappointed when she hangs up to find that he's still there. But her determination has not waned; he needs to learn that his requests can't take priority when there's more important work to be done.  
  
Molly turns to him, just about ready to tell him to leave. "Sherlock..."  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, before she gets a chance, and he appears to be genuinely apologetic. "I didn't realise you were so busy today." He runs a hand through his hair. "I just... I get so caught up in my work sometimes that I forget there are other demands on your time. Ignore my request; I'll come back tomorrow." He smiles. "I don't want to stress you out any further; it looks like you've got enough of that as it is."  
  
"Oh," says Molly. "Right." And she watches as Sherlock turns and heads back out into the corridor.  
  
That... That's... She did it! Molly was finally able to stand up for herself! She's so pleased with herself that she does a little dance, right there in her chair. Hopefully now Sherlock will learn that he can't just come barging in and demanding things whenever he likes.  
  
Molly turns back to her desk, satisfied.  
  
Sherlock did look so guilty though, bless him. She knows he's a little on the slow side when it comes to all things social, so to hear him say 'sorry' is genuinely impressive.  
  
Molly smiles to herself. She's glad to see him trying to be nice. Maybe, as a reward for his consideration, she'll take that file up to him after all.


	10. Prompt: Radge

Sometimes Jim gets so angry that it swamps him. He lies in bed and slumps in chairs, no point in doing anything else because he's so _furious_.  
  
The world is full of idiots; bumbling imbeciles who don't know what they're doing from one moment to the next, and if they could only _see_. If they only knew how _pointless_ they all were then maybe they'd end it there and save Jim the trouble.  
  
Television is the worst of all. Inane chatter and nonsense and people, and Jim's skin _crawls_. Enough is enough. Jim pushes the TV off its stand and watches it shatter on the floor. All in all, it looks better that way.  
  
Then, sometimes, Jim triumphs over his inertia. He'll take his anger and harness it; ride the crest of his own fury and, oh, the things he can do with it. There are appointments to keep and plans to make and Jim will show them, _show them all_ how worthless they are.  
  
A spate of activity finds Jim at his computer. It's fortuitous that an internet search should bring up a certain website and, ah, so that's where he's been hiding. Enrapt, Jim reads about green ladders and missing persons and deductive reasoning and it's _glorious_.  
  
Jim laughs. His pulse is racing, mind glittering, body humming _humming_ with rage.  
  
He's never felt better.


	11. Prompt: Ad absurdum

"You have to admit," says John, as they walk back up Whitehall, "that this would have been a lot easier if you had some knowledge of politics."  
  
Sherlock scoffs. "Not important."  
  
"But you didn't know who the Prime Minister was!" exclaims John.  
  
Sherlock sighs and stops in the middle of the street. People stream around him. "John," he says, "we've had this conversation before."  
  
"I know," says John, "but, come on, remembering who the Prime Minister is won't hurt!"  
  
"Yes it will." Sherlock starts walking again and throws up his hands. "Ok," he says. "So first I learn who the Prime Minister is. What next? The rest of the cabinet? The whole of the House of Commons?" He gives John a sour look. "Where does it end? Sportsmen? Celebrities? WAGs? I don't have an infinite amount of memory, John! There'll come a point where I have to start forgetting things to fit it all in and then I'll find that I can no longer tell the difference between the different types of cigarette ash because I'm too busy remembering who's a contestant on the _X-Factor_!"  
  
John stares at him as they walk along.  
  
Sherlock frowns. "What?" he asks after a moment. "What is it?"  
  
"You've heard of the _X-Factor_ ," says John. He looks out across the road and grins. "I didn't think that would be your sort of thing."  
  
Sherlock huffs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "I've heard Mrs Hudson talking about it."  
  
"Yeah," says John, smiling, "but Mrs Hudson sometimes talks about politics too and you don't remember that."  
  
Sherlock strides ahead. "Not important, John!"  
  
"Do you watch _Strictly_ too?" asks John.  
  
Sherlock doesn't deign to give him an answer.


	12. Prompt: Autochthon

The place is large; a giant glass construction housing beds and beds of tropical plants. It's one of the main attractions at the house.  
  
They're led through into the humid heat by the house's head curator. "No-one's seen him since Tuesday," he says, walking along, "although I shouldn't think..."  
  
"When you lose something, it's always best to start from where you last saw it," says Sherlock blandly, looking around at the plants as they pass.  
  
The curator frowns. "Yes," he says. "Yes, but a missing person is a bit different to losing a set of keys."  
  
Sherlock says nothing.  
  
John jumps in, just as a painful silence starts to blossom. "Of course not," he says. "Of course it's completely different."  
  
The curator coughs. "Anyway," he says. "He was down by the Asian plants. Working late. He was last seen by one of the security guards at 7pm." The curator points. "It's just up ahead."  
  
Sherlock stops so suddenly that John nearly bumps into him.  
  
"Er... Is there a problem?" asks the curator, stopping and turning around.  
  
Sherlock takes a few steps back the way they came and points at a bush just off the path. "This plant," he asks. "What type of plant is it?"  
  
The curator shrugs. "I don't know," he says, scratching at his neck. "I normally work with the historical collections up at the house. Plants aren't really my specialit..." He jumps as Sherlock strides off the path and up to the bush. "Oh! No! You're not supposed to walk on the...!"  
  
"This isn't right. Look." Sherlock shakes a drooping branch. "This isn't a tropical plant at all. It's wilting in the heat."  
  
"Maybe..." starts John.  
  
"No," says Sherlock. "I saw another plant just like it as we walked up the drive. This plant is native." He snorts and glances around. "So why is it here?"  
  
"Like I said," starts the curator, "I'm not really in charge of..."  
  
Sherlock crouches down and inspects the soil at his feet. "Recently been planted," he mutters, and before anyone has a chance to stop him, he scrabbles at the soil with his hands, tugging part of the bush up by its roots.  
  
What's revealed, with a gruesome hint of more below, is the corner of a jacket.  
  
Sherlock turns to look at the curator.  
  
The curator blanches. "Oh." And John has to scramble to grab hold of him before he passes out.


	13. Prompt: Rome

"So," says John as they step out into the Piazza del Popolo on the first day of their holiday. He squints up at the sky. "Where do you fancy going?"  
  
"Ooh, choices." Sarah looks around them and smiles. "I'm not sure I mind, as long as there's ice-cream involved."  
  
John laughs. "Ice-cream?" he says. "You know, I think we might be able to get some of that around here. Just a guess."  
  
"Well, that's a stroke of luck." Sarah grins. "Come on then." She pulls a map out of her bag and opens it. "I'd quite like to go see the Colosseum at some point, if that works."  
  
"I don't know." John stares down at the map. "Is it close to here?"  
  
"Hardly," says a voice behind them.  
  
John nearly falls over in surprise. "Sherlock!" he sputters, turning around. "Jesus Christ. What on earth are you doing here? In Italy! We're in Italy for God's sake!"  
  
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks upwards. "The local police called me over. I won't bore you with the details, but I'm headed over to the Villa Borghese. Coming?" He smiles at Sarah. "Hello by the way."  
  
"Er, hi," says Sarah, sounding rather bemused.  
  
"No," growls John. "No, of course I'm not coming. I'm on bloody holiday, Sherlock. With Sarah."  
  
Sherlock sighs. "Suit yourself." He turns to head off. "We're staying in the same hotel so I suppose I'll see you this evening then." And with that, he strides away.  
  
It takes John two whole days to fully calm back down.


	14. Prompt: Southern lights

"The aurora australis," says the man on the TV, "are just as impressive." He's standing in some sort of exotic location wearing a big coat, and the camera pulls back to show him looking at the lights in the sky. "Wow," he says. "When you see them, they really are quite amazing."  
  
John is enjoying this show more than he thought he would. Finding out how some of this stuff works is fascinating.  
  
On TV, the camera pans across the sky to show the lights in all their glory.  
  
"Beautiful," murmurs Sherlock from the other armchair.  
  
John blinks. He turns around to find Sherlock giving the TV his full attention.  
  
"Oh." John smirks, feeling rather smug. He looks at Sherlock. "I didn't think this was your sort of thing."  
  
"What?" asks Sherlock, sounding rather distracted.  
  
John decides to push further. "The solar system," he says. "I didn't think you cared about it."  
  
Sherlock frowns and shakes his head. Then he turns to John and pulls a headphone out of an ear. "Sorry, John. I can't hear a word you're saying."  
  
"Oh, right." John stares at the headphone. "I thought it was a bit out of character; you watching a show about the solar system."  
  
Sherlock smiles. "I am watching, John. Well, enjoying the visuals anyway."  
  
John sighs. "But don't you want to listen to it too? Seriously, Sherlock, this stuff is fascinating."  
  
"Oh no." Sherlock makes a disgusted sort of face. "I don't want to do that. I might accidentally learn something."  
  
Of course. Sometimes John forgets his flatmate is bonkers. "Sherlock," he says. "What's wrong with that? You'll enjoy it. You like learning things."  
  
"Not things that aren't useful," says Sherlock. He puts the headphone back in his ear. "Honestly, John, if I learn it then I'm going to have to waste far too much time trying to forget it again."  
  
"This is ridiculous," says John.  
  
Sherlock smiles at him blandly.  
  
"Take those out," says John. He mimes taking out the headphones.  
  
Sherlock grins. "No."  
  
"Oh, for God's sake." John stands and walks over to Sherlock's armchair, ready to do it himself. Sherlock preempts him though and jumps out of the chair before John can reach it.  
  
"Stop that," huffs John. He chases Sherlock halfway across the room, Sherlock scrabbling over furniture to keep out of his way, laughing all the while.  
  
John's smiling without meaning to. "Sherlock..."  
  
Sherlock smirks at him from the other side of the sofa.  
  
"Fine." John gives up. He goes to sit back down. "Whatever. Do what you like."  
  
Triumphantly, Sherlock stalks back to his own chair and settles down into the cushions. Then, oddly, he takes the headphones out of his ears. "You're right, John," he says, smiling. "I can't wear these forever."  
  
"Oh." For a moment, John thinks he's beaten some sense into him. But no. Seconds later, Sherlock picks up his violin and starts to play.


	15. Prompt: Climate

British weather is unpredictable at best. At the beginning of October, there's a heatwave.  
  
It's about 27 degrees outside. Inside, it feels much hotter. John's had to scrabble in the back of his wardrobe to tug out all his summer clothes, but even in shorts and a T-shirt he still feels too hot.  
  
Sherlock, however, appears to be impervious to anything outside his own mind. John enters the living room to find Sherlock sat at the dining table wearing a suit, jacket and all.  
  
"Jesus," says John. He throws open the windows to let in some air. "Aren't you hot? It's boiling today."  
  
"Mmmm," replies Sherlock, in a way that suggests he's not listening at all. He stares at the table over the top of steepled fingers.  
  
"Still working on that Swedish case, then," says John. He picks up his phone and his book from the coffee table. "I'm going out to the park. Want to come along?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge that one.  
  
John shrugs. "Fair enough. See you later." And he heads out of the door.  
  
A couple of hours pass before John returns. The park is nice but on a day like this it's completely packed. In the end John decides to head home for some respite from the crowds.  
  
When he arrives, John half expects Sherlock to still be sat at the dining table, but what he finds, when he walks in the front door, is Sherlock splayed out on the couch and not wearing a single item of clothing.  
  
Right. John coughs. "Finish that case then, did you?"  
  
Sherlock just groans and closes his eyes. "It's so hot," he complains. "John, you didn't tell me it was this hot."  
  
"Um," John puts down his book and heads into the kitchen, "I think I did, actually."  
  
Sherlock groans again. "I feel like I'm going to die."  
  
"You'll be fine." John pours himself a glass of water from the fridge and looks over to the couch. "Could you not put _some_ clothes on? What if Mrs Hudson comes in?"  
  
Sherlock sighs. "I'm sure she's seen it all before." He flings a hand out to the side. "Ice!"  
  
John huffs a laugh and looks in the freezer. "I don't think we have any ice." He rummages around. "Will frozen peas do?"  
  
"Yes. Peas. Anything." And Sherlock grabs the bag of peas gratefully as John deposits it in his outstretched hand.  
  
John smirks and settles himself in an armchair. "Not a fan of the heat?"  
  
Sherlock says nothing, just places the bag of peas on his face with a happy sigh.


	16. Prompt: Mizzling

Sunday afternoon finds John in Camden standing around at the back of a restaurant and watching as Sherlock takes his time inspecting a body that's been curiously wedged between two bins. The weather is dull, grey and cold, with a weak, half-hearted rain collecting on John's shoulders and dancing about in the air.  
  
They've been here for forty-five minutes already. John's beginning to wish he'd brought his scarf.  
  
There's a sigh from beside him, and John turns to see Anderson looking at Sherlock with an unhappy set to his mouth.  
  
"I don't know how you put up with him," says Anderson.  
  
It takes a moment for John to realise that the sentence was directed at him. Anderson's never tried to engage him in conversation before and, for a moment, John wonders if there's a jibe at the end of it.  
  
"Well," says John, defensive, "he's a friend. And he's very good at what he does."  
  
Anderson sighs again. "Standing around in the rain for hours on end can't be much fun," he points out. "And it's not like you're here to do much."  
  
John gives him a tight smile. "Sometimes I can come in handy. And anyway," John folds his arms, "I find it fascinating to watch him work."  
  
"Barking," mutters Anderson. He rubs at his nose with the back of a knuckle, and for a moment, he and John are silent, watching as Sherlock uses his magnifying glass to inspect a cold, limp hand.  
  
"I mean, seriously," starts Anderson, "he waltzes up here and suddenly I have to stop what I'm doing and go stand in the cold, getting drenched for half an hour." He grimaces. "Years of training and qualifications and I'm ousted by an _amateur_."  
  
John doesn't know what to say to that. True, it's not the qualifications that are important when someone's lying dead, but...  
  
Anderson huffs. "I'm going to get a coffee. Want one?"  
  
John is slightly derailed by being asked. "Ok," he says, cautiously, wondering if there's some trick involved.  
  
But Anderson just nods and trudges over to the café across the road.


	17. Prompt: Nubiferous

Sherlock is almost wreathed in the clouds of his breath as it shudders out, white, into the cold air. He's on his knees for a second, hand clutching at his stomach, before his balance gives out and he topples onto his side, brown leaves crunching beneath him.  
  
John's there in an instant, hands steady with adrenaline and fear. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Can you hear me?"  
  
Sherlock wheezes out a laugh, more clouds billowing upwards, and he fumbles a hand out from underneath him. In his palm, one corner glistening with a smear of red, is a mobile phone. "I wonder how long it'll take for him to notice this is missing?" His face screws up in an attempt to smile.  
  
"Jesus," says John, fingers probing under Sherlock's coat and coming back warm and slick. "He had a knife. You knew he had a knife and you still tackled him." He presses Sherlock's hand over the wound. "Put pressure on it. Can you put pressure on it?"  
  
Sherlock does as he's told, so John pulls out his own phone and calls for an ambulance, looking out at the trees around them and hoping to God that his directions are good enough.  
  
"John," Sherlock's fingers convulse around the phone in his palm, "I need you to get this to Lestrade. If you go now, it..."  
  
"You arse," says John. "You absolute, utter arse." He tugs the phone out of Sherlock's hand, shoves it in the pocket of his jacket, and clutches desperately at Sherlock's red fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Sherlock squeezes his eyes tight for a second, his breathing short and ragged. "Ok." And the grip on John's hand tightens.


	18. Prompt: Rainbow

In the sunshine, the mass of glassware on the kitchen table throws coloured lights onto the kitchen walls.  
  
It's almost pretty, thinks Mrs Hudson, as she wipes down the counter with a cloth. Maybe that's why John seems to put up with it all.  
  
Finishing with the counter, and then the sink, Mrs Hudson turns to the table. She doesn't normally touch it, to be honest; everything always looks so intricate and delicate. Still, the remains of half a sandwich beside a conical flask settles it; if they eat on the table, then it needs to be clean.  
  
She hums while she goes about it; not too loudly, mind, because Sherlock's asleep on the sofa in the next room. The colours on the wall shift as Mrs Hudson moves flasks and tubes and things she doesn't even know the names of.  
  
Some of the beakers are full, and Mrs Hudson is careful not to disturb those too much. All these complicated bits and pieces and experiments. Sherlock is so clever, bless him. John is too, come to think of it, just less likely to spill over onto the kitchen table than his flatmate.  
  
Once the table has been wiped clean and the equipment dusted, Mrs Hudson stands back to survey her handiwork. The table's still full but it looks a bit more useable now. How the boys would manage without her, she doesn't know.  
  
She hums some more as she finishes off the other work-surfaces and rinses her cloths in the sink. The sound of footsteps makes her pause.  
  
Sherlock's standing in the doorway to the kitchen in his dressing gown, looking rather bedraggled.  
  
"Oh, are you up, dear?" Mrs Hudson gives him a smile. "Don't mind me. I was doing my own kitchen so I thought I may as well do yours while I'm at it."  
  
Sherlock looks at the kitchen and the tabletop, then his gaze moves to Mrs Hudson. He smiles. "Thank you."  
  
"Don't mention it, dear." Mrs Hudson hits him playfully with the duster and heads out to do the living room too.


	19. Prompt: Nimbose

Three hours. They've been up on this godforsaken hill in the middle of nowhere for three bloody hours. And all John has is Sherlock and a bush for company. He's starting to think that the bush is the more interesting of the two.  
  
Sherlock watches the road through a pair of binoculars. John's left to do nothing; sit in the cover of the bush and wait, apparently. Because, of course, John hasn't been told why he's here too, and, of course, he's got to keep still so he won't give their position away, and, of course, when he tries complaining about any of this he receives a dismissive remark about patience.  
  
Slowly, above their heads, the sky goes dark. John doesn't notice it until it's too late.  
  
"Sherlock," he says, looking up at the heavy clouds, "Sherlock, I think we should..."  
  
"Stop moving, John," is the hissed reply.  
  
One drop. Two drops. Three. Fourfivesix. The rapidity with which the rain increases is alarming. Suddenly raindrops are drumming down all around them and the bush makes for pitiful shelter.  
  
"Sherlock," John huddles in on himself, "we're going to get soaked if we..."  
  
"Quiet, John; it's not important. I think I can see the car."  
  
Water is already dripping from the tip of John's nose. "I hate you," he grumbles. "I think I actually hate you."  
  
But Sherlock's not listening; he's already started scrambling down the hill to the road.  
  
Later, as they're sitting, sodden, on the train home. John can't stop laughing. He's not sure he's ever been this wet before. All his clothes are dank and heavy, sticking to him in the most uncomfortable ways. There's already a puddle on the floor by his feet, and there's probably one on his seat too.  
  
Sherlock, though. Sherlock looks like a drowned rat. His hair is plastered to his forehead and he keeps having to wipe away trails of water as they run down into his eyes. He's beaming like a lunatic.  
  
"I told you it'd be fun," Sherlock says.  
  
"No you didn't," says John, grinning. "In fact, you didn't explain anything at all. Especially not the bit where you jumped onto the bonnet."  
  
"No," Sherlock kicks his feet out in front of him and crosses one sodden ankle over the other, "I don't think the driver was expecting that either."  
  
He looks at John. John looks back. And together they dissolve into giggles.


	20. Prompt: Greenhew

Sherlock storms through the ground floor of the cottage, looking through cupboards, tossing things aside and growing increasingly frustrated.  
  
"No. No. No!" He strides back into the living room. "It must be here somewhere. Has to be! No-one sends a note like that to a grieving family if they don't think the deceased was holding onto something valuable."  
  
"Well, maybe," starts John, looking up from where he's going through one of the cupboards in the dresser, "but no-one's seen that brooch for twelve years. How can you be sure that..."  
  
"Of course he had the brooch," snaps Sherlock. "Everything leads to this house!" He turns around on the spot. "It must be here somewhere. Come on."  
  
John stands and stretches. "Yes, well," he looks at the items he's found, "unless you're after a set of napkin holders and an old lottery ticket, I think we're out of luck."  
  
Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets, takes two steps towards the kitchen, then stops and turns around. "Wait. Lottery ticket? What lottery ticket?"  
  
"This one." John picks it up and waves it in the air.  
  
Sherlock plucks it out of John's hands. "Why did he keep an old lottery ticket?"  
  
John shrugs. "Maybe he forgot to throw it out?"  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Look around, John. The CD collection is in alphabetical order, the photograph albums are labelled, and there's a careful list of birthdays in the calendar. This was not the sort of person who forgot to throw out a used lottery ticket. Conclusion: he must have wanted to keep it for some reason."  
  
"But why?" asks John.  
  
Sherlock's brow wrinkles for a second. Then he gasps so hard that he reels back with the force of it. His mouth curls into a grin. "Oh, clever, clever!" Sherlock pulls out his phone, types something, and dashes out into the garden.  
  
John scrambles after him. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Where are we going?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't answer. Glancing at his phone every now and again, he runs through the garden and out into the field behind. "Come on, John!" He heads along the side of the field, over a stile and down into a small copse of trees.  
  
John catches up just as Sherlock stops beside a mass of undergrowth.  
  
Sherlock paces a little way into the greenery, staring at his phone. "Oh, brilliant!"  
  
"What?" John pauses to catch his breath. "What is it?"  
  
In reply, Sherlock shoves his phone into John's hands. On the screen is a map.  
  
John frowns. "How...?"  
  
"Don't you see?" Sherlock's eyes light up and he passes the lottery ticket to John too. "These numbers. He didn't buy the ticket because he wanted to win the lottery. He bought the ticket because he wanted to remember the numbers without them being obvious to anyone who was looking for them."  
  
John's shakes his head. "I don't..."  
  
"They're co-ordinates, John!" Sherlock falls to his hands and knees and scrabbles through the plants. "He was more clever than we thought. And they lead right... hah!" Sherlock digs a little, then rises to his feet, triumphantly clutching a small tin covered in mud. Inside the tin, when he tugs it open, is an old-looking brooch. Sherlock smirks. "Of course he couldn't sell a famous thing like this, not after it had been stolen. Couldn't bear to part with it either, so he hid it, hoping it would be easier to dispose of in the future."  
  
"That's..." John looks from the brooch to the phone to the lottery ticket and then back to the brooch again. "That's amazing."  
  
"It is." Sherlock smiles as he pockets the tin and starts to head back to the cottage. "And I am." He flashes John a grin over his shoulder.


	21. Prompt: Psychrolute

In hindsight, John should have been more careful. Running full pelt along an icy towpath on the shortest day of the year is never a good idea.  
  
One minute he's with Sherlock, chasing after their suspect; the next his foot slips and suddenly there's cold water rushing and Jesus Christ _oh Jesus Christ_.  
  
By the time John's pulled himself out of the canal, both Sherlock and their suspect have gone, and John has to lie gasping on the towpath for a few moments before he really remembers where he is.  
  
Luckily, Baker Street isn't too far away. John wanders back in a daze, dripping onto the pavements and freezing freezing cold.  
  
Sherlock's already home when John arrives, sitting in an armchair, coat still on, fingers steepled beneath his chin.  
  
"Did you catch him?" asks John.  
  
"No." Sherlock glances at John, then stops and looks again. "This isn't the time of year to be swimming, John."  
  
John almost laughs in disbelief. "Swimming? It's not like I did it on purpose."  
  
Sherlock's brow quirks into a frown. "But you're all wet."  
  
"I fell." John stomps across the room, takes off his coat, and leaves it in a sodden heap on the floor. "I slipped and fell into the canal and you didn't even notice, did you?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise, already staring back down at the floor.  
  
"Right," says John. He trudges across the floor, heading for the bathroom. "Thanks for your concern by the way. No, I'm fine.  
  
"Don't," starts Sherlock.  
  
John stops.  
  
"Don't use your towel. If you're having a shower, that is. It's been..." Sherlock looks up. "Actually, you probably won't want to know." He smiles pleasantly at John. "I have some clean ones; you can borrow one of mine."  
  
"Good. Ok. Good." John grits his teeth and continues on his way.


	22. Prompt: Owie

"John," says Sherlock through gritted teeth, "I am fine."  
  
"You're bleeding out onto the sofa," points out John.  
  
"It's all relative." Sherlock huffs. "I could be bleeding a lot more." He pulls his arm out of John's grasp.  
  
John yanks it right back. "You need stitches. Now hold still."  
  
"You can be be very tedious, you know, sometimes, John," snarls Sherlock. He tries to twist out of John's grip.  
  
"Look," John has to pin him down with both hands, "do you want to go to A&E or do you want to do this here? Because I'm quite happy to take you down to the hospital if..."  
  
Sherlock purses his lips. After a moment he says, "We'll do it here."  
  
"Good." John relaxes his hold when Sherlock stops struggling. "Now, I'll need to disinfect it first so..."  
  
As soon as John lets go completely, Sherlock rolls onto his side and cradles his arm out of John's reach.  
  
John clenches his jaw. "I've had two-year olds who are better patients than you, you know."  
  
"Mrs Hudson!" calls Sherlock over his shoulder. "John says he'd like to move out! Will you give him his deposit back?"


	23. Prompt: P's and Q's

John gets home from work to find Sherlock sitting at the dining table in front of a laptop. A brief glance ensures John that, thankfully, the laptop in question is Sherlock's own.  
  
As John takes off his jacket, Sherlock stops typing and looks up. "Did you have a good day?" Sherlock asks.  
  
It takes John a moment to register the question. He frowns. "What?"  
  
"Did you have a good day?" Sherlock smiles at him.  
  
"Oh. Right. Er. It was good, thanks." John looks at Sherlock. "And you?" John asks, confused. How was your day?"  
  
Sherlock's smile widens. "Good." He glances at the table beside him. "Some post arrived for you today." He picks up a few letters and hands them to John.  
  
"Thanks." John's not quite sure what's going on. He sits down with his letters and opens them.  
  
Bills, bills, adverts...  
  
After a few minutes, Sherlock's beside him with a mug. "Tea?"  
  
"Wait," says John. He takes the mug as Sherlock offers it to him. "Wait. What's going on?"  
  
Sherlock smiles down at him. "Just making you tea."  
  
"No." John shakes his head. "You don't just make tea." He looks at Sherlock. "Why are you being so nice? You're not normally this nice."  
  
Sherlock's lips quirk. "I don't need a reason to be nice, John."  
  
And that's possibly the scariest thing John's heard in a long time. "What have you done? Is it...?" Worried, John goes to check that his bedroom is in one piece.  
  
"I didn't touch your wardrobe," calls Sherlock after him.  
  
If anything, that just makes John run faster.


	24. Prompt: Runway

Behind the scenes, things are frantic. The place is bustling with models and make-up artists and fashion designers. It's really not John's sort of place at all, despite the swarms of beautiful women.  
  
Sherlock just stalks right through the middle of it.  
  
"Are you sure Moriarty's going to be here?" asks John.  
  
"You read his message," says Sherlock, looking behind clothes rails and under tables. "He can't have meant anywhere else."  
  
"Excuse me," huffs a very flustered looking woman as Sherlock pushes past her, "are you even supposed to be here?"  
  
Sherlock ignores her.  
  
"Sorry," calls John, as they move away. "We're just..." He gestures at Sherlock and leaves the sentence hanging.  
  
Sherlock's staring at people as they move past. "He's good at disguises, John. He could be a hairdresser or a make-up artist or..."  
  
Dread coils in the pit of John's stomach. "Or a model," John says, watching a very androgynous, and very familiar, looking model heading out onto the stage.  
  
Sherlock looks up, wide-eyed, just as Moriarty throws a smirk in their direction and walks through to the waiting public.  
  
Whatever the photographers at the fashion show were expecting to see that day, it probably wasn't Sherlock barrelling down the catwalk and tackling one of the models to the floor in a flurry of fists and fabric.


	25. Bonus!

**A handy summary of all 24 drabbles** (Warning, actual numbers may be slightly different, and may go up as well as down. Always check with a financial advisor first.)  
  
The drabbles contained:  
  
Twelve daring chases,  
Eleven angry clients,  
Ten steepled fingers,  
Nine gruesome murders,  
Eight dirty test tubes,  
Seven breathless giggles,  
Six tricky puzzles,  
Five stolen things,  
Four deleted facts,  
Three smug smirks,  
Two sodden Johns,  
And a naked Sherlock on the settee.


End file.
